


screwed

by thunderylee



Category: Good Charlotte, Pop Music RPF
Genre: Canon Universe, D/s, F/M, POV First Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Toys, assplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-08
Updated: 2006-09-08
Packaged: 2019-02-08 00:59:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12853308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thunderylee/pseuds/thunderylee
Summary: Kelly holds a grudge.





	screwed

**Author's Note:**

> reposted from agck.

“ _Ow_ , bitch, that fucking hurts!”

My hairdresser tugs harder as though to spite me, and she probably is. I give her a death look in the mirror and she smirks, obviously entertained by the side of me that only she and a few other select victims get to see.

I am an evil, nasty little person. And I fucking hate getting highlights.

I scrunch up my nose as the smell of someone getting a perm wafts past my senses. The performing I can handle. The pretentious asshats with whom I have to deal on an hourly basis, I can tolerate. Even putting on this goody-goody front for the past four years in an effort to avoid “bad publicity” and uphold my “image,” well, apparently I am a better actress than everyone thinks.

But having my hair forcefully yanked through tiny holes in aluminum foil a few strands at a time, this crosses the line. _Fuck_ highlights. Whose brilliant idea was this, anyway? I’d like to hunt down the bastard who invented them and drag him out into the middle of the street with the creators of thong underwear, bikini waxes, and ultra low-rise jeans. _And shoot them all_.

I’m from Texas. I could do it.

“I hope your face freezes like that,” my hairdresser tells me. “Wouldn’t that be an interesting cover of _Teen People_?”

Fuck _Teen People_ , too. I am twenty-four years old. I really don’t care if my songs inspire little girls to confess their crushes or let go of unrequited “loves.” I care about the grown women who listen to my lyrics and realize that it’s not worth staying in a dead-end relationship if they’re not happy and their man isn’t treating them the way they ought to be treated. The women who feel stronger, validated, refusing to allow any man to “tie them down” or compromise who they truly are.

Fat load of hyperbole coming from me, but it pays for my house. And these goddamn highlights.

“Eat me,” I shoot back, feeling absolutely no remorse considering how fat this chick’s wallet is because of me.

“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” she asks, shaking her head.

“I don’t kiss _anyone_ with this mouth,” I reply proudly.

And it’s true. I haven’t had a real boyfriend since before I auditioned for _American Idol_. Everyone thought that Justin and I were so made for each other, which I found highly amusing considering that he’s _gay_. Same with Clay. While I do love them both, they’re not exactly my type, and not just because I prefer men who like women.

I sigh dramatically, grateful that the painful part is over and I have a few minutes without that heinous bitch cramping my style while the color seeps into my follicles and possibly my brain. I use my alone time wisely, taking the opportunity to practice my facial expressions in the mirror while mouthing the lyrics to the song I will be performing tonight: _Addicted_.

I didn’t want to release this song, especially since my first five singles from this album got played out on the radio like nobody’s business. There are just some songs that need to be kept low-key, specifically for the ears of those who purchased the album. _Addicted_ and _Hear Me_ are the two songs I didn’t plan on performing live until I went on tour, and even then, I was only going to do _Hear Me_. _Addicted_ is such a personal song, not just to me but to everyone with whom I’ve spoken about it.

I hate myself for not fighting my manager and insisting that five singles were more than enough, but I suppose I should be happy that I was allowed to have _any_ say over this album at all. Of course, if it was entirely up to me, it would have been a lot harder rock music with a lot more swearing. Maybe it’s a good thing that my manager has me by the metaphorical balls.

My highlights are done ten minutes later and I hate them. I see no reason why I can’t go on stage with regular brown hair. I should be grateful that I don’t have to wear a skanky outfit like Britney Spears; these awards show fashionistas learned a long time ago that I am not the dress and heels kind of girl. I am a jeans and tank top kind of girl, and if they try to put me in anything else, well, it won’t be the first time I’ve sung barefoot.

Backstage is a madhouse. I’m constantly reminded of my high-school musicals when everyone was running around like chickens with their heads cut off, rushing to find a lost piece of a costume or putting on stage makeup in their compact mirror. One would think that a large group of adults, famous ones even, would be able to conduct themselves with a bit more decorum, but alas, it is not so.

Christina Aguilera is on her period, something which she feels the need to remind everyone within earshot. Normally I like her, we get along, but she is a raging hormonal bitch once a month and just about everyone in Hollywood has learned this the hard way.

“Quick, hide me!” a high-pitched masculine voice begs desperately as a blur of colors passes my vision and attempts to squeeze himself between me and the trash can.

“I’ll fucking kill you!” Christina shouts, running down the hallway half-dressed with no makeup and her hair in curlers, looking very much like the bride of Chuckie. She stops dead when she sees me and smiles so genuinely that it almost makes her look like the victim of a tragic car accident, which is an improvement. “Hi, Kelly,” she says evenly. “Have you seen Benji Madden?”

I cannot hide the smirk on my face, but the cowering form behind me is clutching onto my belt in such a way that I know I’d go down with him if I ratted him out. “Which twin is he?” I respond, feigning confusion.

“The fat one,” Christina replies, her face contorting into anger.

My smirk has grown into a grin. “Nope, haven’t seen him. But when you find him, give him one for me, will you?”

“Will do.” She shoves the curlers out of her face and narrows her eyes as she glances further down the hallway at some pour soul who happens to have colored sleeve tattoos. “Nice seeing you. Good luck tonight.”

With that, she speeds away in a whirl of hairspray and perfume. I immediately snatch the wrist on my belt and spin around, twisting his arm into what is probably a painful position.

“Thanks, Kelly,” he says, his voice strained.

“Glad my fat ass could hide you,” I spit, abruptly letting him go and smiling when he topples backwards and almost falls into the trash can.

“You’re not still mad about that, are you?” Benji puts on his trademark puppy dog face, which I’m sure brings all the fourteen-year-old girls to the yard but doesn’t quite cut it with me.

I scoff and shake my head, brightening my smile for effect. “Nope,” I drawl, thickening my Southern accent. “I am comfortable with myself, thank you very much, and I am not now, nor have I ever been, _fat_.” My eyes rake over his body, purposely lingering on his midsection before rising up to meet his eyes. “Although I liked _you_ better chunky.”

This would have been the perfect moment to turn on my heel and walk away, but I am way too curious to witness his reaction. Instead, I fold my arms and look at him expectantly, taking a small step forward under the pretense of allowing a group of audio guys to wheel their carts by.

He blinks and clears his throat in what I can only presume to be a nervous manner. “I should go find Kim.”

Of course. His twin brother is dating Hilary Duff, so Benji has to go one step further and court one of Paris Hilton’s minions. It’s cute, really, in that “I want to gouge my eyes out with a spork” kind of way.

“The guys from Avenged Sevenfold are lifting weight in the gym,” I tell him. “You’ll probably find her there, drooling with the other trust fund kids.”

This time I really do turn to leave, but his voice stops me. “You know Avenged Sevenfold?”

“Not personally,” I admit. “But then again, our worlds don’t cross very often, do they?”

“They cross more than you think,” he replies cryptically, standing up to his full height, which is only a little bit taller than me. “See you around, Kelly.”

He brushes past me and makes a left into the adjacent corridor, and I can’t stop myself from watching him walk away.

“Kelly, good, there you are. You’re on in five.”

~*~*~*~

“It’s like you’re a drug. It’s like you’re a demon I can’t face down…”

It’s like he’s a vortex, actually. It’s like he’s the Black Hole itself; while he looks pretty from far away, he’s fatal up close. Once you get past a certain point, he has you in his evil clutches, and there’s nothing you can do but let him suck you in. The only difference between the two is that with him, I’m in for a fate worse than death: heartbreak.

Lucky for me, I play dirty. After whatever the hell that was backstage, I made it a point to find out exactly where Benji and his princess were sitting, barely catching sight of them before I was blinded by the harsh stage lights and deafened by the speaker in my ear. Ignoring the frantic waving of my manager stage right, I remain standing where I am as I begin the song, focusing my eyes and words directly on the spot where I know Benji is.

I purposely make my voice raspy, which I think sounds better for this type of song anyway. My manager thinks it’s slutty, and I’m sure I’ll get a lecture the minute the cameras cut out, but right now I don’t really care.

This is the real Kelly shining through, the one who hates highlights and day spas and “bling.” The Kelly who would love nothing more than to burn her first album and cut any and all ties with _American Idol_ and the bubble-gum pop persona that comes standard with it. The Kelly who, if she were being honest with herself, wanted to shove Benji Madden into the nearest dressing room backstage and fuck him retarded.

“I’m hooked on you, I need a fix, I can’t take it. Just one more hit, I promise I can deal with it…”

I’m already screwed; I may as well go down fighting. When I get to the final chorus, I _scream_. This part is already high to begin with, but the added depth in my voice takes it into a completely different genre. The accompanying guitar players seem to notice the change of direction and play harder. I am definitely getting my ass chewed when I get offstage.

My eyes are still locked as the song ends, and there is a fraction of a second between when the lights go out for the cameras and return for the stage crews (“fade to black” effect, I’m told) that I see him staring back at me. The look on his face is priceless: wide eyes, mouth agape. The creature beside him grips his arm in an effort to regain control of his attention, or perhaps even show possession; either way, she shoots me a nasty look when he doesn’t respond.

Kelly for the win.

~*~*~*~

“What the shit was that, Kelly?” My manager blocks the door to my dressing room so that I can’t get in, and while I’m certain that could take him, I’m not too keen on going to jail tonight. “Is this what you want to start doing? Are you going to rip your clothes and pierce your face and write songs that nobody will play on the radio?”

I place one hand on my hip and bring the other to my chin, tapping my lip in thought. “I’d like a nose piercing.”

“Kelly, I’m serious,” he pleads. “That performance was atrocious. It would have been a _smidgen_ better had you thought to rehearse this way with the band earlier, then at least you wouldn’t have been off-beat for a whole measure.”

“I was off-beat for an eighth note,” I argue. “They caught on right away. That’s why we pay them so much.”

He folds his arms and leans back against my door. “Did you not hear the forced applause at the end?”

“No, I did not,” I answer honestly, folding my arms as well. “It wasn’t for them.”

“It wasn’t?”

“No, it wasn’t. It wasn’t for the fans, the critics, the _AI_ producers, or even the kids who like that kind of music. It was for _me_. Now kindly get the fuck out of my way.”

My manager, presumably sensing defeat, rolls his eyes and walks away without another word. I fling open the door, slamming it shut for good measure before I begin my after-performance routine of washing the crap off of my face and out of my hair.

A tentative knock sounds, almost quiet enough to make me think I imagined it until I hear someone call my name. Throwing my hair back in a ponytail, I wipe my face one more time and pull open the door.

It’s _him_. “What the fuck do you want?”

The corners of his pierced lips turn up in the slightest of smirks. “You don’t scare me, Kelly.”

“I’m a hell of a lot bigger than Christina, and you’re scared to death of her.”

“She hits below the belt,” he says. “A nice Southern girl like you would never do such a thing.”

I eye the body part in question and take my time returning my gaze to his. “Shows how much you know. Us Southern girls are _raised_ to hit below the belt.”

“But you wouldn’t,” he insists. “May I come in?”

“Wouldn’t want to get you in trouble with your girlfriend.”

I start to close the door, but he stretches his arm out and holds it open. He’s stronger than I give him credit for, and after a couple seconds of struggling I give up and stand aside.

He enters, firmly shutting the door behind him. “You already have.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I feign innocence, returning to my makeshift powder room and splashing my face with water once again.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, helping himself to a seat on the couch, “I thoroughly enjoyed it.”

“I’m glad,” I reply indifferently, patting my face dry with a hand towel.

He clears his throat. “My brother is throwing a party after this. He doesn’t live far from here -”

“Not interested,” I cut him off. “I have shit to do.”

“Like what,” he says disbelievingly.

I rub moisturizer on my cheeks. “Like not being in a house with overgrown little boys who think big cars and even bigger bling makes their penises huge.”

He chuckles. “So what would you rather do?”

_Take you right there on the couch_. “Honestly?” I shift the cream to my T-zone. “Go home, get into my pajamas, and watch TV.” I cap the moisturizer and pull the rubber band out of my hair to brush it. “And if I’m not too tired, toss one off before bed.”

“Want some company?”

I snort, glancing into the mirror to see if he’s kidding. He’s not. “I don’t think I need your help to get off.”

“I meant the TV part,” he clarifies, appearing slightly embarrassed.

I plop down on the other end of the couch, purposely not looking at him as I continue to brush my hair. “Don’t you want to go to your brother’s party?”

“Not particularly,” he says in such an exasperated way that I have a feeling he’s telling the truth. “I’ve seen those assholes almost every day for the past year. And after what happened tonight, I really don’t want to hear it from any of them.”

“What happened tonight?” I ask, only a little bit interested.

My hairbrush is snatched out of my hand and I turn to glare at him, but he beats me to speak. “Kim accused me of sleeping with you, very loudly, in front of everyone.”

I snatch my brush back. “You’re _not_ sleeping with me.”

“It doesn’t matter whether I am or not.” He shifts his position so that he’s facing me completely. “It will be all over the tabloids by the end of the week.”

“Lovely,” I say. “I haven’t had a good rumor for awhile. And _finally_ , one where I’m actually fucking a straight guy.”

Benji smirks. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“I could say the same about you.”

Shaking his head, he heaves a sigh and takes a look around my dressing room. “Are you going to sing like that from now on?”

“I might,” I reply.

“I’ll have to start going to your shows then.” He offers a smile and leans back against the arm of the couch. “That was better than the album version.”

I scoff. “ _You_ listened to my album.”

“I had no choice,” he says defensively. “Tony plays your shit all the time. I think he secretly wants to be a woman.”

My hands clap to my face as my laughter builds up, threatening to break free. When it does, it’s all over. The vortex has sucked me in completely. I stand up from the couch and grab my phone. “I’m calling a cab. This is your last chance to get out unscathed.”

“What, no limo?” he jokes, making no effort to hide the fact that he’s adjusting himself.

In turn, I make no effort to hide the fact that I’m staring at his crotch. “A limo would mean I want to be seen.”

“Are you ashamed of me, Kelly?” he asks, feigning hurt. “Am I your dirty little secret?”

I meet his eyes. “Not yet.”

~*~*~*~

The sexual tension in this cab is so thick that it could only be cut by those forever-sharp knives they sell on infomercials at four o’clock in the morning. The driver appears not to give a shit that he has Kelly Clarkson and Benji Madden _together_ in the backseat, but I plan on overtipping him anyway. Fifty dollars is the unofficial code for “shut the fuck up.”

Benji and I are on opposite ends of the seat, leaning into our respective windows and most definitely _not_ stealing glances at one another. My Southern Baptist grandmother could catch sight of us out of the corner of her peripheral vision, _without_ her glasses, and know that we were going to have sex. And this was before Benji had the cabbie pull into a gas station so that he could “get a few things.”

I live kind of far from where the awards show was held, along the coast in this secluded upscale neighborhood. I don’t exactly have a beach house, but I can walk to the ocean in about ten minutes and in the four years I’ve lived here, I’ve never seen a soul between dusk and dawn.

We pull into my long, winded driveway and I reach into my pocket to grab my wallet, but Benji beats me to it. He puts the fare on credit and slips the driver a fifty before letting himself out of the car without looking back at me. I do the same, smiling briefly when the cabbie bids us a good night and drives away.

“This is fucking beautiful,” he says quietly, walking up the cobblestone path to my house. “Is that the ocean I saw on the way up here?”

“You didn’t have to pay,” I say in response, jogging to catch up with him.

“Sure I did.” He stops at my front door and steps aside so that I can unlock it. “This way, when he runs to the tabloids, he can tell them that I was a complete gentleman.”

I snort as I punch in my security code. “A complete gentlemen who came home with me.”

The door opens, and my dogs run up to greet me. I crouch down to pet them all, belatedly noticing that Benji has done the same next to me. I vaguely remember that he has dogs as well, and it occurs to me that I don’t really know anything about him. I don’t listen to his band, I have only heard of his friends in passing; hell, I wouldn’t know where he was _from_ if it wasn’t tattooed on the back of his hand. And if it hadn’t been for that misunderstood comment about Hilary last year, I probably wouldn’t even know he existed.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, scratching one of my dogs’ ears while looking intently at me.

“I don’t know you,” I say in a small voice.

He smiles. “I’m not a deranged serial killer, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

My dogs appear to like him, and that’s good enough for me. I return to my feet and walk towards the kitchen, flipping the lights on my way. “Make yourself at home. I just have to feed them real quick.”

The front door closes as I grab the dog food from the cabinet and pour some into the almost empty bowls. All three dogs immediately run to their respective dishes, and I make sure the dog flap on the back door isn’t blocked before turning back towards the living room.

Benji is standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms folded, watching me. “For the record, I don’t think you’re fat.”

“Noted,” I reply, brushing past him and flopping down on my couch with the remote. “Damn, I missed _Conan_.”

I hear him chuckle behind me as he takes a seat on the next cushion, not too close and not too far. “I thought you were going to wear your pajamas?”

“That would require going upstairs.” I flip through the stations until I find an interesting-looking movie on cable. “Priorities, you see.”

“I see,” he says. “Oh, this is a good movie.”

I feel like a fucking fifteen-year-old girl who invited her crush over while her parents went out of town. Biting my lip in frustration, I ward off all of the stupid-girl thoughts and decide to throw caution to the wind. “So… wanna make out?”

He laughs. _Laughs_. I lean over to shove him playfully, as though I was kidding, but he grabs a hold of my arms and pulls me towards him. “Yeah, I do,” he says seriously, looking from one of my eyes to the other before descending his lips upon mine.

It’s not like I didn’t see this coming. It’s not like there was any other reason for him to come back to my house. However, when the contrast of cool metal and a hot tongue invades my senses, I’m flooded with insecurities and panic. I am _not_ that girl. I’m not one of his teenybopper fans who thinks that he and his brother walk on fucking water, or even one of the older ones who would drop to their knees for him on a dime. This is _my_ house, _my_ self-indulgence, and dammit, if I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it _my_ way. And I’m going to get mine.

“Upstairs,” I mumble against his lips, hopping up and leading the way before he can even open his eyes.

He stumbles as he follows me, which elates me to no end. He knows exactly what his place is tonight; he knew the moment I saved his ass from sudden death by PMS. _He owes me_. His ass, and the rest of him, belongs to _me_.

When I reach my bedroom door, I fling it open and don’t bother with the lights. Without turning around, I reach behind me, grab a fistful of his shirt, and use every ounce of my strength to fling him onto my bed. He probably could have stopped me if he wanted to, but he didn’t, and I’m on top of him before the mattress can even dip under his weight.

I find his mouth in the dark as I straddle his hips, grinding down _hard_ as I suck his tongue into my mouth. His groan goes straight between my legs, where I am more than ready to ride this bitch for all he’s worth. I abandon his tongue in favor of his bottom lip, nibbling and tugging on his lip rings while moving back and forth against his rapidly stiffening crotch.

His hands slide up the front of my shirt, and we just can’t have that. I snatch them both and pin them over his head, smirking when his eyes pop open and widen. “Nobody said you’re allowed to touch me,” I whisper. “You have to earn that right.”

He doesn’t respond with words; instead, he makes this low growl that vibrates through my entire body and thrusts his lower body upwards as though it’s an involuntary motion. _He likes it_.

“If you can’t be a good boy and keep your hands to yourself,” I tell him in mock concern, “I’m going to have to tie them behind your head.”

He struggles in my grasp, and it’s obvious that he’s not even trying. It’s also obvious that he is, indeed, very keen on the idea of being bound and helpless in my control. I release his hands long enough to lift his shirt over his head, whip my belt off, and loop the studded leather around his wrists, positioning them behind his neck so that he can’t get out of it without hurting himself. After fastening the buckle snugly but not too tight, I drag my nails down the length of his arms, tracing the outlines of his muscles as I feel him squirm beneath me.

Hovering my mouth over his, daring him to lean up and kiss me, I continue my journey down the sides of his torso and back up again, splaying my palms on his skin and feeling every sharp curve and contour of his chest. I rock my hips back and forth, his straining erection rubbing right against my clit through our clothes, and I bite my lip at the delicious friction just as he gasps and closes the remaining distance between us.

My hands keep descending as I reciprocate, crushing our mouths together and receiving another rather nice thrust when my fingers dance down his happy trail. I clamp my thighs around him in an attempt to keep him still, but it’s no use; he simply lifts me up with his hips. I can’t stop a rough moan from escaping my lungs, and I fumble with his belt a little faster than I would have liked.

Reluctantly, I detach my crotch from his and kiss my way down his neck and chest, rushing to lower the offending garments over his prominent bulge and around his knees, where he helpfully kicks them off completely. I find myself face-to-face – well, face-to- _cock_ , and I am not disappointed in the slightest. Resisting the urge to take it into my mouth, I lick my lips in anticipation and raise my eyes to look at him from between his legs.

He’s staring back at me, his eyes clouded with a lust that is clearly visible despite the darkness. I hold his gaze as I slowly spread apart his thighs, kneading the flesh between my fingers and pressing a chaste kiss to the crease where thigh meets groin.

His body arches upwards and there’s a soft thud as the back of his head connects with the mattress. I swirl my tongue up and down the crease, tightening my grip on his thighs when they start to convulse.

“ _Kelly_ ,” he whines, his voice lacking any kind of definition.

“That’s right, baby, say my name,” I reply in a low, husky voice, paving the path to his balls with my tongue.

“Fuck!” he cries out, threatening to pop me in the face with as hard as he is bucking upwards. “Why aren’t you naked?”

That’s a very good question, one which doesn’t require a verbal answer. He moans in protest as I raise my head, but it turns into appreciation when I sit on his thighs and pull my shirt over my head, tossing it carelessly across the room before reaching my hands behind my back to unclasp my bra. He eyes my breasts as they’re exposed, and I take the opportunity to arch my back as I push my remaining clothing over my hips, where they fall to my knees and are stepped out of quite easily.

“Happy?” I ask, crawling up his chest to meet his lips.

“Untie me,” he says.

I shake my head. “Not yet. But I will give you a choice. Would you rather I blow you or fuck you?”

“Fuck me,” he answers promptly, dragging his lip rings along my chin. “For the love of _God_ , fuck me.”

“As you wish,” I say with a malicious grin, reaching over to my nightstand to grab a few items from the drawer. “You sure are kinky.”

His eyes land on the tube of lubrication and the slim, cylindrical object in my hand, and honestly, I thought he was going to refuse. I really did. I did _not_ expect him to push himself up with his shoulders and fuse his mouth to mine, nearly causing me to lose my balance and collapse on top of him.

Oh, _shit_. This has definitely taken a turn towards interesting. I regain my composure and kiss back with a vengeance, trying to concentrate through the sudden exorbitant arousal that has suddenly taken over my brain in order to pop the cap on the tube and coat my vibrator until it almost slips out of my grasp.

He abruptly tears his mouth away from mine and inhales like he’s been denied air this entire time. “Jesus, Kelly, if I had known you were into this, I would have done this a long time ago.”

I smile sweetly as I turn the toy on slow speed and trail it down his chest, past his cock and balls, teasing his perineum as he spreads his legs like a whore and rolls his eyes into the back of his head. “Remember that the next time you call me fat,” I say sternly, shoving the vibrator straight into his ass.

He screams loud enough to wake my neighbors, who live at least a mile away in every direction, and I almost feel guilty because that had to have hurt a little. Before I can even flick my wrist, his scream morphs into a loud, raunchy moan; his eyes fly open and he stares at me like he wants to fucking tear me apart. “Un. Tie. Me.”

I do, but only because I’m so wet that Olympic swimmers could do laps between my legs and I have no idea where he put the condoms. I concentrate on wiggling the vibrator inside of him while he blindly reaches over the side of my bed for his jeans, triumphantly emerging with a condom. I snatch it from him and rip it open, scooting down in order to roll it on his cock. With my mouth.

Once that baby is on, I waste no time impaling myself on him. He feels _so good_ inside me, and his moan of relief is like music to my ears. He’s got his knees up and a considerable distance apart, on which I can lean back as I bounce up and down on his cock and reach behind me to push the vibrator in and out. Just for fun, I turn up the speed and end up having to grip onto his thigh to keep from being fucked into the air.

I don’t even have to move; he’s lifting his hips so fast that I can’t keep up, his hands on my waist to slam me down with every upwards thrust. His face is flushed and strained as he struggles to look at me, struggles to breathe properly, and the sight of him writhing beneath me is enough to release the build up and make me scream his name as I come.

He doubles his efforts, biting his lip and pushing through the restricting clenches of my orgasm. As I feel another one creep up, suddenly all that matters is having him come with me. I angle the vibrator upwards and jab it repeatedly, watching his face contort and his mouth gape open in a silent moan.

I can tell he’s going to come when his lower half starts shaking uncontrollably and he digs his fingers into my waist hard enough for me to feel through the overall numbness of my body. I flip the speed to full force, and he lets out this high-pitched wail worthy of M Shadows as he buries himself deep inside of me one final time.

In the haze of my second orgasm, I manage to turn off the vibrator and fling it across the room before I fall on top of him in a pile of sweaty, breathless limbs. He clings onto me, and I am momentarily amazed that he actually wants to cuddle with me before I curl my arms around his and nuzzle my face into his neck.

“Fat ass,” he mumbles in my ear, outlining the shell with his tongue.

I use the last of my strength to lean up on my elbows and narrow my eyes down at him. “Does that mean you’re ready for round two?”

In response, he thrusts upwards just enough for me to realize that he’s clearly not done from round one. Grinning at my raised eyebrows, he says, “Bring it on.”


End file.
